


Possibility

by MissMaudlin



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fake Marriage, Immigration & Emigration, Marriage of Convenience, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-01 12:11:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4019284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMaudlin/pseuds/MissMaudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Uh, it’s obvious,” Jenny said. “You two could get married.”</p><p>At that, Crane sat up straight while Abbie could’ve thrown her phone at Jenny’s head. No, no, no. She couldn’t marry Crane. Be his wife, claim that intimacy, even on paper—no, that was not an option here.</p><p><i>“I beg your pardon?”</i> Crane asked in a clipped voice, his accent almost more aristocratic, if that were possible. Abbie could imagine him as the lord of the manor house with that voice, gazing down upon recalcitrant servants who dared to question his orders. “Are you suggesting your sister and I <i>marry</i>?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ichabod Crane—Revolutionary War hero, Witness, man of multiple languages and continents—would have the luck to piss off the one person who wasn’t a demon or a witch that could make his life hell, Abbie reflected after rereading the Notice to Appear for the third time today.

 _In the matter of Ichabod Crane… you have been admitted to the United States but are deportable for the following reasons._ Below that, a haphazard checkmark next to the box: _You remained in the United States beyond your visitor visa’s terms…_ And at the bottom, a looping signature clearly spelling the officer serving the notice: Jonathan Young.

Abbie handed Crane the letter. “Well, we’re in deep shit now,” Abbie said finally, her voice surprisingly even given the situation.

Crane shoved the document into his coat pocket with haphazard motions, his hands betraying his agitation. “This can’t be final. To whom do I appeal this decision?” He scoffed, brushing his hands against his coat. “Certainly not Mr. Young, brute that he and his brother are.”

Abbie sighed, sitting down on her oversized couch, Crane remaining standing behind her. Crane had only told her about the letter today, despite receiving it days earlier. Abbie sincerely doubted that the passport Hawley had gotten for Crane would hold up under close scrutiny, as it was used mostly for buying booze and getting something as mundane as a library card, not to mention the similarly fake visitor’s visa had long since expired.

She should have taken care of this, Abbie thought bitterly. But what chance was there that they’d deport an English white guy like Crane? Immigration didn’t care about people like _him._ And they had demons to take care of, Moloch to defeat, Katrina to stop. Abbie didn’t have time for fucking paperwork like this.

“Lieutenant, I realize now that I should not have avoided broaching this topic, but I must admit that it seemed inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.” Crane circled around before sitting beside her, his back ramrod straight, in direct contrast to Abbie’s slumped posture against the cushions. Gazing at her, he added, “What is to be done?”

Abbie covered her eyes. This was what happened when you lived two lives like they did: in what seemed like a normal drug investigation, they’d uncovered a demonic plot—of course there were fucking demons involved—that resulted in a few monsters dead and Jonathan Young’s brother in prison for murder, among other crimes. And now Young had apparently dug into the life of one Ichabod Crane, oddball partner of Lieutenant Mills, and was enacting his revenge the only way he knew how. Abbie almost laughed—how absurd were their lives?

Abbie glanced at Crane, watching as he tapped his long fingers against his thigh, his entire body tense. She didn’t know what to do. Go to Hawley to ask for better papers? Run away? Hope that Crane could charm Immigration with his English accent? Prove that they’d meant to apply for a work visa but had forgotten?

But right now, it was a moot point.

Sitting up, Abbie turned to face Crane. “I won’t sugarcoat it: we are in deep shit. You have no passport—" as Crane attempted to speak, she interrupted, "—no, Hawley’s doesn’t count. Not really, not to mention last time I checked he was in the jungles of the Amazon. Even if Young bought it as legitimate, you’ve overstayed your visitor visa and worked without a work visa, which is illegal. And Young is on a mission: he’ll get you deported if he can find any reason to.”

Crane exclaimed, “How can this man deport me? To where? I am as American as you, Lieutenant!”

Abbie smiled. “Yes, you’re even an original. But do you really want to tell Young the reason you don’t have legit papers is because you were buried in 1781 and resurrected 200-some years later?”

Crane’s eyes narrowed. “Certainly not. But perhaps he may listen to reason—"

“No, he won’t,” Abbie replied bluntly. “And when he finds out you aren't really a UK citizen, God only knows what’ll happen.” Sighing again, she muttered under her breath, “What a fucking nightmare.”

They sat in silence for some time, only the ticking of the clock on the wall signaling the passage of time. Cars zoomed past outside, an occasional honk piercing the monotonous sounds. Somewhere, Abbie heard the sharp cry of a blue jay, most likely attacking someone’s house cat for getting too close to its nest.

“Lieutenant, I can’t let you take this burden on,” Crane finally said, breaking the silence. “It is my responsibility, and if I must meet with Mr. Young, then I will do so.”

Abbie almost smiled: so very honorable, was Ichabod Crane. And so very stupid sometimes. “And then what? Your skinny ass will be across the Atlantic, if not in jail, before you could open your mouth.”

Crane clenched his fists, the strain of this action traveling up his arm, so much so that Abbie could see the vibrations of his muscles. “And yet what recourse do we have? We cannot leave Sleepy Hollow.” And Crane gazed at her, his face infinitely serious. “And I cannot leave _you_ , Miss Mills.”

Abbie felt her heart speed up at this declaration—oh, Crane was so talented at words. She knew that. Yet she fell for them every single time. But with Katrina’s death no longer dogging his every step—and his obsession to reclaim her as his wife fueling his every movement—Abbie knew his words were as sincere as she wanted them to be. Touching his hand, she replied, “Hey, I know. And we work together, right? Because we’re partners. We’re friends.”

Partners. Friends. Nothing more, Abbie told herself. Never anything more.

An unbidden thought— _you could get married—_ traveled across her consciousness, but Abbie squashed the thought. That was not an option. _I can't let it be an option_ , she thought to herself.

Getting up suddenly, Abbie went to take her phone off the kitchen ledge, dialing Jenny’s number with quick movements. “Hey Jenny,” she said within a few moments, “can you come home soon? I need your help with something.” Abbie nodded, turning back to see Crane watching her; she made noncommittal noises in response as Jenny spoke, then said, “Okay, see you soon,” before stuffing her phone in her back pocket.

“What assistance will Miss Jenny provide?” Crane asked. He rose as well to stand by Abbie. Although she’d told him multiple times he didn’t need to stand every time she did, he inevitably did it regardless. Too much good breeding, she supposed.

“I have no idea,” she replied. “And if she doesn’t have a plan, fuck me if I know what our options are.”

*

After Abbie debriefed Jenny on the situation, Jenny sat across from Abbie and Crane, tapping her fingers against the arm of the chair. “Well, my first suggestion would be go to Hawley, but he’s MIA at the moment—mostly. By the time he’d get my message it might be next week and too fucking late. And any of my connections are out-of-state.”

“So, nothing?” Abbie asked.

Jenny smiled a little. “No, I didn’t say that. There is one thing you could do. I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned it.”

“Miss Jenny, if you know of a way to rectify this situation, I implore you to explain yourself.” Crane’s agitation had calmed to an almost weary resignation by the time they’d explained his situation to her. And this worried Abbie—Crane was usually annoyed, or intrigued, or impatient, or agitated. But not resigned. The last time she’d seen him like this had been when he was still grieving for Katrina.

“Uh, it’s obvious,” Jenny said. “You two could get married.”

At that, Crane sat up straight while Abbie could’ve thrown her phone at Jenny’s head. No, no, no. She couldn’t marry _Crane_. Be his wife, claim that intimacy, even on paper—no, that was not an option here.

“ _I beg your pardon?_ ” Crane asked in a clipped voice, his accent almost more aristocratic, if that were possible. Abbie could imagine him as the lord of the manor house with that voice, gazing down upon recalcitrant servants who dared to question his orders. “Are you suggesting your sister and I _marry_?”

Jenny shrugged. “Sure. Then you can get your green card—although you’ll probably need some other paper stuff, which Hawley can help with as he’ll be back by the end of the month—and then a quicky divorce. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.” Jenny raised an eyebrow at them both. “You seriously didn’t even consider this?”

“No, we did not—" Crane began.

Abbie cut Crane off. “I thought about it for a second, but I’m sure there’s another way.” Panic began to rise in her throat: panic that this was, in fact, their only choice.

Oh sure, she liked Crane. She loved him, even—as a friend. The way he brought her Chinese food on Friday nights, or prepared her a cup of tea when she was tired and sore, the way he pulled books from shelves, his fingers long and tapered and lovely despite fighting demons and monsters and witches all the livelong day, the smell of him as he brushed beside her, the way his arms felt around her those handful of times they’d hugged. 

Yes, she liked him. But not enough to marry him. Never enough to marry him.

“What other option do you have? Crane, this isn’t like olden times. Divorces are as common as women in pants.” Jenny's voice broke Abbie's trance, startling her back into reality.

Crane rose, beginning to pace in front of them. His fingers fluttered and Abbie saw a sheen of sweat on his brow. He’d only just gotten out of a shit marriage from a woman who’d try to kill him in the end. No wonder he was agitated, sweating. He probably never wanted to marry again.

And for some reason Abbie didn’t yet understand, that thought caused a pang.

Crane eventually stilled. “If we were to go through with this—" and he held up a hand to stop Abbie from speaking—“it will be a marriage on paper only. I had no intention of ever marrying again, and this will merely be a short deviation. Is that acceptable to you, Lieutenant? We need not even live in the same quarters, if you wish.”

Abbie sighed, suddenly as resigned as Crane was some moments before. She knew Jenny was right, that this was the quickest way to circumvent this issue, to give them time. And it wouldn’t be real. And refusing this plan was unfair to Crane, as she knew, deep in her heart, that she wanted to avoid this solution simply out of a baseless fear of the unknown.

But Crane needed to know the truth, if they were truly to marry.

“We’ll have to give a good enough show—that we’re a legitimate couple—for Immigration. Which means we’ll have to live together, act like we’re married, learn our likes and dislikes and all of that shit—that we don't already know, of course—to prove we aren’t just marrying for your green card.” And as Abbie watched Crane’s face realize what she was saying, she admired his aplomb. “I’m okay with it, if you are.”

Crane glanced at Jenny, who merely raised an eyebrow, before he returned his gaze to Abbie.

And then, to Abbie’s utter astonishment, he knelt in front of her on one knee. “Miss Grace Abigail Mills,” he intoned in a voice that made her heart beat faster than she’d care to admit, “will you marry me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for Mia, who gave me the idea. Blame her entirely. ;)
> 
> Also, I know embarrassingly little regarding immigration in the US beyond what I've gleaned from various random sources, which I utilized in this fic. Point being: if there is a glaring inaccuracy, well, you'll know why. But also, this is Sleepy Hollow, so everything should be taken with a grain of salt, eh?
> 
> And I can't believe it's been almost 3 months since my last fic. You can blame grad school.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein our pair realizes the stakes and gambles accordingly.

Silence resounded for some moments, as Crane knelt before Abbie, his expression surprisingly earnest given the situation. Abbie looked up to see Jenny regarding them, and her sister merely glanced from Abbie to Crane and back again, assessing. A sudden anxiety filled Abbie: what were they doing?

Abbie stood up, so quickly that Crane sat back on his heels before untangling his gangly limbs to follow after her, who’d left him and Jenny in the living to go to her bedroom. Before she reached her doorway, he grabbed her wrist. “Lieutenant, Miss Mills—”

Abbie let him stop her, but she remained turned away from him. “There has to be another way. I can’t do this, Crane.”

“Miss Jenny assured us that we could procure a speedy divorce soon thereafter.” When Abbie began pulling her phone from her back pocket, Crane added, “Do you have other objections?”

Abbie didn’t reply. Instead, she Googled “How long do people have to stay married for a green card” and when she saw the number—10 years, _10 motherfucking years_ —she paled. Turning to face Crane—trying to hide how hard she was trembling, trying desperately to stem the fear flowing through her body—she shoved the phone in his face. “Do you see this? Jenny neglected to say that ‘quick’ meant 10 fucking years of marriage!”

Crane took the phone from her hand, his eyebrows furrowed. She saw his eyes scan the text, saw him register the number just like she had, but he didn’t start to shake. No, he turned the phone off, handed it back to Abbie, and regarded her.

“This means little,” he finally said, his voice low, presumably to keep Jenny from hearing.

“This means _little_?” Abbie stared at him, incredulous. “I realize you were buried alive for 250 years, but 10 years of marriage is a bit more than what you’d call _little_.”

“Miss Mills.” Crane paused, gazing at her, his voice somehow soothing her trembling, her terror. “Abbie,” and he caressed the syllables in that proper accent of his, and Abbie would be a liar if she said she didn’t feel that in the depths of her pounding heart. “This needn’t be a true marriage. Merely ink on a page.” When Abbie said nothing, he explained, “If you should seek other lovers—”

“We are not talking about this.” Abbie tried to step away, to return to Jenny, but Crane took her by the wrist again, his grip gentle yet firm. “Crane, let me go.” Abbie knew her voice sounded tired, defeated. She just wanted to go back to where they were only hours before: partners, friends, witnesses. But nothing beyond that.

“Only until you hear me.”

Abbie hesitated. She wondered why Crane was pushing this so hard—wasn’t he the one always trying to find other solutions, trying to solve the puzzles, work out different paths? Why did he seem so determined to take this path, of all of them available?

She thought, then, of him as a husband: waking beside him, eating breakfast, his long fingers gripping the handle of the tea pot as he poured her a cup; his clothes scattered across chairs, his scent filling her nose as she touched his things: a pen, a cup, the pillow sewn by Miss Caroline, his books. She thought about casual touches throughout the day, fingers entwined, a foot rub in the evening, a chin resting on the crown of her head. Heated nights, sheets tangled, gasps and moans, skin against skin as they came together.

Abbie finally turned. She would hear him out, at least. She didn’t have to say yes, but she could listen to him. She took a deep breath. “What do you have to say?”

Crane was still holding her by the wrist. At her words, he moved his fingers from her wrist to take her hand, brushing her palm with his thumb just briefly before he let her go. “Our marriage need not be a true one, as I said. You mentioned earlier that we must perform, show that we are not playacting to the officials. Once there is less scrutiny, you may do as you wish.”

“And what about you?”

Crane frowned a little. “I have no interest in entering another relationship.” When Abbie was about to reply, he added in a soft voice, “What other option is there, Abbie?”

Abbie didn’t know. She knew there wasn’t one, not really, and this didn’t have to be real. They were the masters of remaking themselves, she and Crane. This was just another to add to the list: married couple, in love, check, check. “You realize that Immigration will check in on us, and if they suspect our marriage isn’t legit—even years from now—they’ll take away your green card. Probably send me to jail, too. Do you really want to give up the chance to remarry or date before you’re 40?” And suddenly Abbie felt a surge of anger, that she was made to feel guilty for balking at this plan. “And what about me?" she asked, her voice tight. "You say I can have lovers, but I can never have a real relationship with another man while we’re married. What if I wanted a real marriage? Kids? Did you think about that?”

Now she was just being cruel, she knew. She’d never considered marriage, kids, the white picket fence. She’d been on her own for so long that just having Jenny back and Crane by her side as her fellow witness had been enough. And with the seven years of tribulation she had to deal with, a family hadn’t entered the picture. How could she have a family with demons trying to kill them at their every turn? 

Crane, on his part, didn’t back down. He may have paled slightly, his fingers dancing at his sides, his agitation obvious. “I am cognizant of the fact that you would be doing me a great service—”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“But you once told me that we didn’t have time for attachments. You yourself have avoided any romantic relationship—yes, I have noticed, Lieutenant—despite more than one man expressing his interest in you.” 

“Yeah, so?” Abbie wanted to back away from his gaze, penetrating, blue, unrelenting. Crane had the remarkable ability to see right through her, more often than she cared to admit. He understood her on a level no one else ever had—not even Jenny.

“I ask you this: do you avoid this because you truly want a marriage elsewhere, or are you simply afraid of committing yourself in any way?”

Abbie froze. She wondered, briefly, if she resembled a deer in headlights: shocked, terrified. And just as suddenly, she came back to herself, anger rushing through her once again. “Fuck you, Crane,” she said. “Fuck you for calling me a coward.” 

“I merely asked your reasoning—” 

Abbie pulled him by his collar, dragging his face down closer to hers. “I know exactly what you’re doing, and you know what? I’ll fucking marry you. I’ll marry you and act like your wife and make absolutely certain that you will enjoy it so much that you wish it were real and before you know it it’s over and I’ll be gone. But I'm only doing it because we have a job to do and we have no choice, got it?”

They were both breathing heavily at this point, only inches apart, Abbie’s hands buried in the cloth of Crane’s clothes. Abbie could almost hear his heart beating; she could certainly feel the heat of his skin through the thin layer of his shirt.

And then, to her surprise, Crane smiled, and Abbie’s anger melted away, like the first sunshine against spring snow. “You will marry me?” Crane asked.

Abbie stepped away, folding her arms across her body. “Yeah,” she replied with finality in her voice. “I’ll marry you.”

Crane took her hand. “Then let us tell Miss Jenny our happy news, then.”

* 

Twenty-four hours later, Abbie stood with Crane, Jenny as their witness, as the officiant married them down at the city clerk’s office. They’d obtained their license as soon as they’d told Jenny their news; thankfully, the clerk had only glanced at Crane’s passport, smacking gum as she had them fill out the paperwork and took their money, uninterested in the weirdly dressed guy or the antsy cop supposedly wanting to marry each other. 

At the ceremony, Abbie wore a sundress—one of two dresses she even owned—knowing that she had to at least appear interested in getting married. She’d wanted to wear jeans and a t-shirt, but she resisted the impulse. Jenny had given her their mom’s wedding ring to give to Crane right before the ceremony; Crane gave her the Mason’s ring he’d been wearing, stating that he’d buy a proper one as soon as possible, as he knew men in this age wore rings whereas men during his time did not.

Abbie didn’t really care if he wore a ring or not. She could only feel the future pressing down on her, heavy and cloying and almost overwhelming. The words of the officiant, his voice a drone in her ear, seemed to be in a different language entirely. It was a wonder she managed to say her part at all.

But when she looked up at Crane—saw his expression, an expression that was both serious and serene at the same time—she forced herself to calm down. This didn’t really change anything: she and Crane had had their lives entangled from the start. They were practically married anyway, Jenny had pointed out—well, except for the sex. Unless they’d been hooking up without her knowing?

Abbie had thrown a pillow at her sister for that remark.

Now, though, the sun shone through the windows of the city clerk’s office, the sound of typing and feet tapping against the floor filling the room, voices coming and going, and Abbie repeated words she didn’t fully hear and before long she had Mama’s ring on her left hand.

“You may kiss your bride,” the officiant intoned, his voice rather bored, and Abbie felt Crane’s fingers tip her chin up, his touch infinitely gentle against her skin. She closed her eyes as his lips touched hers—just a brief brush against her own—and then before she knew what was happening, she, Crane and Jenny stood outside, the sun bright, almost glaring overhead.

No one said a word for a moment before Jenny took the keys from Crane’s hand. “I’ll just go get the car, huh?” And before anyone responded, she’d left Abbie and Crane by themselves on the sidewalk.

Abbie fiddled with the ring on her finger, refusing to meet Crane’s gaze. She didn’t want to talk about this. What else was there to talk about? She'd wanted to tell Jenny to stay, to avoid having to be alone with Crane this soon.

“Miss Mills—no, I mustn’t call you that any longer, I suppose. Abbie.” And like he did in the clerk’s office, he tipped her chin up to meet his gaze. “Are you well?” 

Abbie wanted to cry. She wanted to run. She wanted him to kiss her again. She felt the sun beating down on her. But she stood before him, letting his warmth from his hand fill her body, and said simply, “I’m fine.”

And as she turned away, she wondered if she imagined the sadness in Crane’s gaze. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the kudos and comments on the first chapter. Really appreciate it. <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein our pair holds a discussion and experiences their first night of wedded discomfort.

“How exactly do you two plan to explain this recent development? ‘Oh, we were in love all this time, including when this guy was married?’” Frank motioned at Crane, before taking a swig of his beer. “Yeah, that’ll go over well down at the precinct.”

They'd met up with Frank after the ceremony, wanting to explain to him the circumstances and assist them with coming up some kind of explanation to tell people. Frank, in his usual deadpan tone, had wished them congratulations before moving quickly on to business. For that, Abbie was infinitely grateful.

“It’s not like they’re the first couple to get married so soon—” Jenny’s eyes widened slightly before she left the sentence dangling. _So soon after one person’s spouse died_ , Abbie filled in the rest. And so soon that the rumors were inevitable—were they together when Katrina was still alive? Had Abbie been the other woman and how lucky it was that Katrina had met with a tragic accident so soon? And now they were _married?_

Abbie eyed her own beer. There wasn’t nearly enough in it for her to get through tonight.

“In my day, men often remarried soon after a wife’s passing. Often there were children to care for, the house to maintain.” Crane fingered the mason’s ring, now sitting on his left hand where it once sat on his right. “But I suppose that isn’t the case now, am I correct?”

Frank tilted his head. “Sorry, buddy, but not really. At least no one’s going to admit that’s the reason they remarried.” 

“Can’t we just…keep this to ourselves? For now?” Abbie knew the answer. But she wanted to put it on the table regardless, in the small hope that someone would say that they could keep their marriage underwraps for a while, keep it on the downlow. Who needed to know, anyway? Well, besides the United States government, she thought darkly.

In her peripheral vision, she saw Crane flinch. Just ever so slightly. And her heart sunk with that infinitesimal movement: even if she wanted to keep it secret, Crane most certainly did not.

“You could maybe keep people in the dark for a week or two,” Jenny began, “but, Abbie, if Immigration is going to be interviewing you two and looking into your lives, hiding it would give them reason to suspect.” Jenny’s voice was gentle, gentler than Abbie had heard her sister speak in a long time. Normally, it was Abbie soothing her more emotional, more sensitive sister. How the tables had turned.

“Jenny’s right. You don’t have to send out cards announcing it to everyone in town, but acting like it should be a secret isn’t going to help either of you.” Frank finished off his beer, clunking it down on the table. Condensation rolled down the bottle's sides, wetting the napkin underneath the glass. “So what story are you going with? You need something to tell people.”

Abbie fell silent, thinking, coming up with something, anything, and then Crane’s voice broke the silence, his tone quiet and thoughtful. “We need not tell anyone a convoluted story,” he began, tapping his fingers lightly against the scarred wooden table of Sleepy Hollow’s dim sports bar. “We may tell people that we had fallen in love with one another—” and here Crane glanced at Abbie, and Abbie glanced away, embarrassed “—during our time together as partners at work, and I persuaded the Lieutenant to marry, for my love for her could not be denied.”

“And you really think people are going to buy that you got Abbie of all people to marry you for that reason alone?” Frank gave Crane his most dubious look, the same one he gave Abbie when she tried to persuade him that there was a Headless Horseman loose in Sleepy Hollow. The same look he gave whenever he knew someone was speaking some kind of bullshit, as he’d call it.

“Who’s going to ask anything that specific anyway?” Abbie asked, rather desperate to move off this particular branch of the conversation, talking about love, talking about her and _Crane_ being so in love that they’d ignore public censure and marry in haste.

“You know people are going to think you got her knocked up,” Jenny said bluntly, and Abbie choked on her beer as Crane spluttered. He’d been in the 21st century long enough to know what that euphemism entailed. 

“For Christ’s sake, Jenny—”

Crane cut Abbie off. “Anyone who would think such a thing clearly knows nothing in regards to my character. Of all of the ideas someone would dare to imagine, that is highly offensive: not only to me, but to your sister.” 

Jenny held up her hands. “Hey, I’m just saying: people are going to whisper. And although I’d like to think we’ve moved past the ‘get married because the condom broke’ bullshit, we haven't. So prepare yourselves.”

While Crane grumbled, his outrage not so easily deflated, Abbie just sighed. At this point, it hardly mattered: there’d already been rumors about her and Crane for ages now, what with the Cranes’ estrangement and Abbie and Crane’s close friendship. “We’ll just tell people that we recognized our feelings for one another and decided not to wait,” Abbie said simply. “And we’ll leave it at that. We have some time to figure out a better story for Immigration when they come knocking.”

Her tone brooked no argument, and Jenny just murmured her assent while Frank eyed her a moment before nodding. “Sounds about as good as we’re going to get at this point,” Frank added before waving over their waitress. “Another round of drinks—on me. You two will need it.”

Abbie couldn’t agree more.

*

The Lieutenant—no, Abbie, he could call her that now, since she was his _wife_ —had been in the cabin on numerous occasions before. Even late at night, when she was too tired to drive home and just wanted to “crash on the couch” as she put it. He’d seen her make tea in the kitchen, seen her curled up, asleep, before dawn’s light peered over the horizon, her breathing even and calm. He’d even heard her cry out in her sleep from nightmares, and he knew her well enough not to go to her (he’d done it once, and she’d been angry for days), to let her awaken, to realize she was just dreaming, and curl back down into the sofa cushions.

But now. Now she was here as his wife. Her slim figure standing in the living room, the curve of her neck delicate, her skin smooth, her smell drifting to him as she moved about the cabin. As she moved into the kitchen and stretched to reach a box of tea—so small in stature she was—a peek of brown skin was revealed by her uplifted t-shirt, as she’d changed out of the enchanting gown she’d worn to their wedding as soon as she’d arrived.

 _Their wedding._ His chest hurt thinking about it.

He hadn’t imagined her hesitation when he’d kissed her—so brief, that one small touch of lips against lips, her breath against his mouth, filling his lungs and his entire body—and her trembling when he placed the ring on her finger. The refusal to meet his gaze, her desire to keep their nuptials hidden. He wasn’t shocked by this, as he knew Abbie was less open to emotional attachments. But he found himself hurt just the same: stupidly, unwisely hurt. If he were a better, stronger man, he’d allow this union to be merely on paper like he’d said it would be yesterday.

But he was done lying to himself. Katrina had, at the very least, cured him of that weakness. He’d lied to himself for years about Katrina, about her supposed devotion, of her goodness, and of his love for her and her love for him. That had crumbled beneath his feet, and now Katrina was gone forever. And this woman—Grace Abigail Mills—was before him.

“Do you want a cup?” Abbie asked as she set the kettle to boil. “I know we just had beer, but my head hurts. And I’m not going to sleep anytime soon.” When Crane didn’t reply, she asked, “Hey, are you okay?”

What a question! Was he _okay?_ No, he was not okay. And he never would be with her standing in this place, with that ring on her finger, with her smelling like jasmine, with her kindness in asking him if he wanted a cup so intrinsically part of her that she probably hadn’t even noticed she’d asked. No, he wasn’t okay.

“I’m well,” Crane said in a low voice before walking to the cabinet to pluck two teacups down from the shelves. “Simply weary.”

“God, me too. I always thought a courthouse wedding would be easy and fun—no planning! no flowers or cake!—but apparently it’s just as exhausting as a real wedding.” Crane recognized that Abbie was beginning to chatter, to fill the silence, the awkwardness, and he found himself smiling a little. “Although I gotta say, I always imagined I’d get married in Mama’s church—”

Abbie fell silent, hunching in on herself, and Crane reached for her, touched her arm. “Abbie, I’m sorry.”

She allowed his hand to linger on her arm before she shrugged off his touch. “It doesn’t matter. Those dreams had left me a long time ago, before everything happened.” The kettle shrieked, and she snagged a pot holder so she could take the hot kettle off the burner. “What you think you want when you’re 10 is rarely what you end up getting.”

Crane imagined young Abbie, dreaming of her wedding. Of the gown she’d wear, of the flowers she’d choose to walk down the aisle with. Of the man she’d choose to marry. A man highly unlikely to have been someone like him.

Abbie poured one cup of tea before pouring another. She spooned in some honey for her cup, and poured some cream into his before handing him his cup. “Hey, we had to do what we had to do. Don’t be glum.” And she walked off to the living room sofa, folding her legs underneath her as she sighed, sipping the hot brew.

After a moment, he joined her, and they sat in companionable silence, drinking tea, allowing the sounds of the night to fill their existence. Allowing themselves simply to be: with one another, in this new life they were to lead.

When Abbie left to ready herself for bed, Crane washed the cups in the kitchen sink absentmindedly before standing and listening to the water in the bathroom run. Listening to Abbie move about, unzip her bags, splash water on her face. He imagined her stripping the cares of the day away, brushing her teeth—a nice invention, toothpaste—before wrapping her hair in one of those colorful scarves she wore at night. She’d spent enough nights at the cabin for him to know her routine.

Rather like how he’d know a wife’s routine.

And then Abbie was standing in front of him, hands on hips. “I’ll take the couch, like usual. We can figure out getting another bed or something tomorrow.”

Crane waved away her statement. “No, Lieutenant—Abbie—you must have the bed. I can endure one night on the couch.”

Abbie sighed. “Crane, look—”

But before she could go on, he took her hand, stroking the metal on her left ring finger. The symbol of their union, of their pledge to one another—a pledge he took as seriously as if he'd asked her to marry him as a man in love would ask a woman to marry him. “Let me do this, as a husband should do.” His voice quiet, deep, and he felt the tremor in Abbie’s body as he said the word _husband._ “Allow me this.”

Abbie stared at him, not knowing how to respond, before she lifted her hand away from him. “If you really want that, Crane.”

Crane merely nodded his ascent, suddenly unable to speak. 

And Abbie turned from him, walking to the bedroom before closing the door, the sound final and definitive in the quiet cabin.

* 

Abbie couldn’t sleep. How could she? The sheets smelled of him—woodsy and masculine—and the bedroom was littered with his things. His clothes draped over a chair, boots in the corner, candles on the bedside table (he still tended to avoid electricity if he could), books stacked next to the candles. Currently, he was reading Jane Austen, Malcom X and Harry Potter. Abbie smiled.

She listened to him pad about the cabin for a while longer, the light from the living room filtering into the bedroom. She wondered if he was as restless as she. She couldn’t imagine he wasn’t. And now he was her husband. _Her husband._ The word, foreign, slid across her brain and refused to attach. She struggled to accept what had happened, what was happening, and for now she just listened to this man move about his home, hear him sigh, and then hear the click of the lamp as he turned it off.

Abbie pulled the covers up. She smelled Crane every time she inhaled, and she curled her toes into the blankets. She imagined him sprawled out on the bed, his limbs everywhere, sleeping like the dead until he awoke at dawn like clockwork: the soldier in him couldn’t change that habit. She imagined the nights when he couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning, nightmares rendering his mind painful and bleak. Or the nights filled with other activities. 

Sleeping in his bed made Abbie’s mind wander: the intimacy of it all, the smells and sounds and sensations all made her unable to avoid the images that filtered across her consciousness. Crane reaching for a lover, his long fingers dancing across her skin; his lips drifting down her body; his chuckle as they played with each other in bed. His hips pushing against a pelvis as he buried himself deep inside his lover, his breath hot against her throat.

Abbie covered her eyes with her hand, in the ridiculous hope that could stop her brain. But the images continued, and all she could do was breathe deeply, hoping they’d dissipate, wishing she wasn’t so attracted to this man, and wondering if she could keep this marriage from moving into territory she feared to explore.


End file.
